As you leave the village, you have, to the left, a view of the hill which I have already described, and to the right a level expanse of fertile country, bounded by a good view of respectable mountains, peering decently into the sky; and in a line that forms an acute angle from the point of the road where you ride, is a delightful valley, in the bottom of which shines a pretty lake; and a little beyond, on the slope of a green hill, rises a splendid house, surrounded by a park, well wooded and stocked with deer.  You have now topped the little hill above the village, and a straight line of level road, a mile long, goes forward to a country town, which lies immediately behind that white church, with its spire cutting into the sky, before you.  You descend on the other side, and, having advanced a few perches, look to the left, where you see a long, thatched chapel, only distinguished from a dwelling-house by its want of chimneys and a small stone cross that stands on the top of the eastern gable; behind it is a graveyard; and beside it a snug public-house, well whitewashed; then, to the right, you observe a door apparently in the side of a clay bank, which rises considerably above the pavement of the road.  What! you ask yourself, can this be a human habitation?—­but ere you have time to answer the question, a confused buzz of voices from within reaches your ear, and the appearance of a little “gorsoon,” with a red, close-cropped head and Milesian face, having in his hand a short, white stick, or the thigh-bone of a horse, which you at once recognize as “the pass” of a village school, gives you the full information.  He has an ink horn, covered with leather, dangling at the button-hole (for he has long since played away the buttons) of his frieze jacket—­his mouth is circumscribed with a streak of ink—­his pen is stuck knowingly behind his ear—­his shins are dotted over with fire-blisters, black, red, and blue—­on each heel a kibe—­his “leather crackers,” videlicet—­breeches shrunk up upon him, and only reaching as far down as the caps of his knees.  Having spied you, he places his hand over his brows, to throw back the dazzling light of the sun, and peers at you from under it, till he breaks out into a laugh, exclaiming, half to himself, half to you:—­

“You a gintleman!—­no, nor one of your breed never was, you procthorin’ thief, you!”

You are now immediately opposite the door of the seminary, when half a dozen of those seated next it notice you.

“Oh, sir, here’s a gintleman on a horse!—­masther, sir, here’s a-gintleman on a horse, wid boots and spurs on him, that’s looking in at us.”

“Silence!” exclaims the master; “back from the door; boys, rehearse; every one of you, rehearse, I say, you Boeotians, till the gintleman goes past!”

“I want to go out, if you plase, sir.”

“No, you don’t, Phelim.”

“I do, indeed, sir.”

“What!—­is it after conthradictin’ me you’d be?  Don’t you see the ‘porter’s’ out, and you can’t go.”